The Fake Mate(56)

In and out of the bedroom, apparently, I think guiltily.

“I’ve known you for thirty-six years, son,” she says. “And I’ve never heard you talk about a woman the way you are now.”

“You asked what she was like,” I mutter.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” she practically cackles. “Maybe this will make you think twice about packing up and moving to another state.”

“It’s not like that,” I continue to protest.

“Sure, sure,” she chuckles. “Does your fake relationship entail her meeting your parents?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It would probably be good for your charade if the two of you—”

“Absolutely not,” I stress.

“Fine, fine.” She goes quiet for a second as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I just worry about you,” she admits. “You’re always so closed off, Noah.”

“I am not—”

“Yes, you are,” she argues. “You’ve been so worried about keeping that part of yourself hidden that you never let yourself get close to anyone. Hell, you barely talk to us about your problems anymore!”

“Language,” I say sarcastically.

“Oh, shut up,” she huffs. “All I’m saying is . . . it sounds like Mackenzie might be a special lady. After all, it takes a pretty exceptional person to turn her entire life upside down to help a stranger.”

“I told you, this also benefits—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you,” she says, cutting me off. “I’m just saying. There’s one person who clearly stands to gain more from this arrangement than the other, and one person is clearly putting more on the line for the sake of the other.”

“Mom, you’re losing me here.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she scoffs. “You stand to gain more, and she is putting more on the line. All I’m saying is . . . maybe that’s something worth looking into.”

“You just want this to go a certain way.”

“Well, you aren’t getting any younger, son.”

“Wow. Thanks, Mom.”

“It’s not a crime to want grandchildren, Noah.”

Maybe my mother and Mackenzie’s grandmother aren’t so different. Mackenzie would probably think this conversation is hilarious. Not that I can ever tell her about it.

“Okay, Mom. I really have to go. I have a consult coming up.”

“Just don’t dismiss this like you do everything else,” she scolds. “You can’t just shut everyone out for your whole life. You’ll end up missing out on something . . . special.”

“Yeah. Okay. Will do.”

“And don’t you ever lie to me again. I don’t care how big you are, I’ll whoop your—”

“Okay. Love you, Mom. Call you later.”

I end the call before she can go off on a rant, dropping my phone on the desk and resting my head in my hands. My mother would lose her shit if I were to tell her I’m sleeping with my “special woman” and that I’m slowly losing my mind because of it. I haven’t even worked out the specifics of that myself yet.

My phone buzzes again, a text this time, thankfully, and I assume my mother is following up with some last bit of advice, so I’m surprised (and secretly excited) when I see Mackenzie’s name. I swipe open her text thread and nearly drop my phone—a picture of Mackenzie’s bare legs in my bathtub with a caption underneath.

MACKENZIE: I want to take this tub home with me.



I’m grinning before I can stop myself, feeling a visceral urge to pack up everything, cancel my appointments, and go back to my place to join her—but even in my head that sounds ridiculous. Not to mention dangerous.

I tap out a quick reply, one that reveals none of the heat currently rushing through my blood or the sudden stiffness in my slacks, and I take a deep breath, blowing it out as I set my phone back down. The problem is, I think, that I want to drop everything and go be with her. That the urge to do so gets stronger and stronger with every instance that I’m with her. Everything about this predicament screams danger, and I can’t bring myself to do a single thing about it.

Don’t make things complicated.

I really am in trouble.





13





Mackenzie





It is much harder than it should be to leave Noah’s Jacuzzi tub. It’s big enough to be used as a small swimming pool, which makes sense, given that Noah’s legs are of the Olympic swimmer variety. I’m toweling off my hair when I step out of his bathroom around lunchtime, wondering again if it’s weird that I stayed behind at his place while he went into work. It had seemed like a lovely idea in the early hours of the morning when I’d been tangled in his sheets and blissed out from a full night of orgasms—but now that I’m a little coherent, I’ve been questioning if it’s crossing some sort of line. Though to be fair, the lines of this agreement have never been very clear. And as much as I hate to admit it . . . the sex definitely doesn’t help matters.

Although . . . one might argue that sex with Noah is worth it.

I sigh as I fall back against Noah’s gigantic bed, trying to distract myself from thoughts of my quiet fake mate. His bedroom is exactly like I expected it to be (his entire house, really, for what I’ve seen of it). Save for the furniture and his very wide, very roomy bed—there wasn’t much to explore in Noah’s room after he’d left this morning. There’s a moderately sized flat screen resting atop his chest of drawers, and above his bed, one lone painting of soft colors that remind me of quiet water and breezy trees. It’s a surprising burst of color in his otherwise dreary-looking bedroom, and had I been able to notice anything other than Noah’s mouth and hands and body last night—I might have commented on it while he’d still been here.